Brizzi, the leader of the “Orfeo,” now claimed that what Ole Bull had done for Sbolczis should also be granted to his celebrated band of performers, and offered to secure for the concert the largest hall in the city, one that could hold nearly five thousand people. Ole Bull consented, and the greatest enthusiasm prevailed. In the orchestra sat old men who had accompanied Paganini—“And here he is again,” they cried. The Corriere Italiano said of the concert:—
The Teatro Pagliano yesterday presented an imposing scene. Every part was full to overflowing. The most distinguished families and the ladies of the highest circles, including the Grand Duchess Marie of Russia, whose frequent applause showed how intensely she enjoyed the music, were present at the concert; also Commodore Peruzzi and wife, Princess Carolath, Princess Strozzi, and an immense number of musical amateurs of our artistic and aristocratic society.... The chief honors of the concert were given to the Norse Paganini, the original, inspiring, great violinist, Ole Bull, who kindly contributed his valuable assistance, and paid his respects to the “Orfeo.” His artistic nature prompted him to this graceful act of fraternal courtesy, the value of which is extraordinary, because he himself is extraordinary,—he, the king of all violinists of the present time, the old formidable rival of Paganini. In the fantasy of the “Nightingale” he gave us an idea of his charming and wonderful skill.... In the “Carnival of Venice,” the frantic dance of the notes combined with the most graceful execution could not be excelled. Both pieces produced a storm of deafening applause. The audience desired the latter repeated, but, instead of this, the musician gave them the celebrated fantasy of Paganini on the no less celebrated song of Paisiello, “Nel cor non più mi sento,” and in this we heard from Ole Bull the most secret beauties of song, the sweetness of the flute, the transitions of the violin to the viola, and to the sadness of the violoncello. In the “Polacca Guerriera,” one of his own compositions, burst forth the exciting and powerful notes of war. As a composer he was graceful, wild, full of imagination, feeling, and originality; as a performer he was mighty, wonderful, indescribable. At this point a golden wreath from the “Orfeo” was presented to Ole Bull, while the audience applauded rapturously. The old and handsome hero was visibly moved by the enthusiasm which he had evoked.
He wrote of that evening:—
My violin did not fail me. I was never more thrilled by its tone myself, and I cannot describe to you the pitch to which the excitement ran, or the warmth of my reception. I am so thankful that I have not disappointed my old friends.
From Florence he went to Rome to see Liszt, and he found there quite a colony of his countrymen.
The year following was spent in Norway. He had many vexations and troubles at that time; but the hospitable cheer and ever–affectionate welcome of his dear Lysekloster neighbors made these easier to bear. During the summer he visited the North of Norway—the “Land of the Midnight Sun”—for the first time. That trip was ever afterward a source of delightful reminiscences, and, every successive winter, a repetition of it for the coming summer would be suggested. He used graphically to picture for us the morning which gave him his first sight of the Lofoden Islands: the changeful, illusive beauty of sea and sky through the long day, every feature and outline of isle and coast being sharpened or softened by the play of brilliant light, now and then dimmed by the fitful shadow of a fleecy cloud; and how, towards midnight, all this culminated in a glory indescribable, the warm prismatic colors flooding sky and sea, not followed by twilight, but kindled anew by the beams of the rising sun suddenly shooting athwart the sky, the warmth and glow at last giving way to the tender flush of morning, and then to the white light of day. Then, too, he would tell how his fellow–travelers, mostly Englishmen, were ennuied and indifferent the first days of the trip, but as they approached the North, and felt the influence of the champagne–like atmosphere, how they gradually yielded themselves to the charm of a new sensation, becoming social and even gay, some of them climbing the shrouds like boys, and confiding to him that they had never beheld a scene comparable for beauty, or felt such exhilaration.
At one of the coast villages, which was so small that a concert had not been thought of, they found the whole population turned out, and, with the recruits from the surrounding country, making an imposing array on the quay, which was decorated with evergreens and flags. Surprised at such a welcome, the captain and passengers good–naturedly agreed to wait till the concert could be given. As the steamer, gay with flags from stem to stern, passed out of the fjord, the mountains echoed with the repeated shouts and peals of cannon.
His countrymen received him everywhere with the warm–hearted hospitality they know so well how to dispense. But the dream of a repetition of that trip was never realized. Three years later he went as far north as Throndhjem, but mists and rain prevented a continuation of the voyage.
The celebration of his birthday in 1876 deserves some mention here. The following account is taken, with a few corrections, from Adolf Ebeling’s “Bilder aus Kairo” (Stuttgart, 1878):—